All Hallows - Louise Glück

[Larry Robinson]

All Hallows

Even now this landscape is assembling. 
The hills darken. The oxen 
sleep in their blue yoke, 
the fields having been 
picked clean, the sheaves 
bound evenly and piled at the roadside 
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises: 

This is the barrenness 
of harvest or pestilence. 
And the wife leaning out the window 
with her hand extended, as in payment, 
and the seeds 
distinct, gold, calling 
Come here 
Come here, little one 

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

	- Louise Glück